A Few Bits of Old Plank
by wordybirdy
Summary: John brings home a guitar.  Sherlock is not impressed.  It's got poncey sound holes.


Sherlock regarded the black leather case, currently propped up against the wall of the sitting-room at 221B, with dark suspicion. It had been there when he had arrived back at the flat that afternoon. He had prodded it, picked it up and moved it 10 inches to the right, and then 5 inches to the left. And then prodded it some more. He had resisted the temptation to look inside, but then he knew what it was anyway. It was not good. It might possibly even be one more disruptive element which would drive him clean around the bend. Where was John? Why wasn't he here, so Sherlock might have the opportunity of prodding him instead? It was John who deserved to be prodded 10 inches to the right and 5 inches to the left - particularly if he was going to make a habit of bringing stupid objects like this home with him and propping them up against the wall.

"You found it, then."

It took a Herculean effort for Sherlock to assume and then maintain an air of indifference. He put his hands on his hips and swivelled around to John, standing there in the open doorway, unbuttoning his jacket.

"If 'it' is the leather… thing in the corner then yes, I've found it. That had better be a gift for someone who lives very far away from here, John."

"Well no, unfortunately it isn't. It's mine and I intend to use it. And I think you might enjoy it too, if you gave it half a chance. Would you like to see it?"

"No. Not particularly." If you ask a stupid question then, sure as hell, you'll get a negative answer.

"I thought you'd say that. Luckily, I'm going to ignore you." John walked to the leather case, picked it up and lay it down upon the coffee table. He unzipped the top, and plunged in a hand. Sherlock sat down upon the sofa, put his chin in his hands and rolled his eyes. Please, God, not a demonstration, anything but a bloody demonstration.

"Ta-da! Now _this_, Sherlock, is a prime piece of craftsmanship, I think you'll agree."

"It's a guitar. With weird bloody holes in it." It was difficult getting your words out through clenched teeth.

"Those are the sound holes. It's an Ovation. They're supposed to be like that. It's an electro-acoustic."

"Oh for fu-, you mean there's an _amp_ that goes with this thing as well?"

"There can be, but it can be played without. That's where the acoustic part comes in. Pay attention."

John sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock, and swung the guitar into his lap. He twanged experimentally at the bottom E. "I think it's in tune."

"I'm so happy for you."

"Don't be so _crabby_. Look." John formed an open D chord, and strummed. The sound was mellow, rich, beautiful. D to G to A. Strum, strum, strum. Sherlock's lip tried its absolute hardest not to curl back to the gum in horror. A minor to F to D. Strum.

"Better than your shitty old violin, eh?"

"My…my _what_?" The lip reached the gum; it stayed there, quivering. "You're comparing a Stradivarius to, to - to a cobbled together few bits of old plank with poncey holes punched into it! Dyed _red._"

"Wine red. And it's not old plank, and the sound holes aren't poncey. And I was joking about the violin. A bit." John wondered where his endless reserves of patience came from. He had wondered this every day for the past year, and wondered when the wondering would stop. As well as the alliteration. "I picked up a tutorial book, too, in case you fancied having a go." He waved it at Sherlock. "Expand your horizons, learn a new instrument. You'd probably pick it up really quickly, too."

Sherlock felt as though he were talking to a slightly backward child. "But I don't want to learn to play the guitar," he said, slowly, taking care to place particular stress upon the word '_want_' and infuse it with as much benevolent venom as he was able. John was his friend, after all. "It's yours, so you should play it, and I should… not. If you ever picked up my Stradivarius with the intention of scraping out 'Three Blind Mice' on it then I'd likely twist your neck."

"Lovely. Thanks for the warning. Well, just remember you're welcome to have a twang anytime you like. I'll leave it here in the corner."

The guitar stayed in the corner, untwanged and unloved, for two days. John was too busy at the clinic during the day and too tired in the evenings to do much of anything except soak up bad telly and fiddle around with the new layout of his blog. Awful orange background, text too small, everything right-aligned instead of justified. What a mess. Why on earth had he changed it in the first place? He was no good with computer stuff. One mouse-click and the press of an F key and he'd likely obliterate the entire internet. He'd noticed that Sherlock would cast an occasional glance across to the guitar when he thought John wasn't looking. John wasn't sure if that was a portent of doom, or if it simply meant that Sherlock was curious. Sherlock's expression was inscrutable. Confucius himself wouldn't have been able to figure this one out.

On the third day, John saw that the zip on the guitar case was pulled only partway across. He chuckled as he dumped the shopping bags on the kitchen table. He was still chuckling as he put the kettle on for tea. He stopped chuckling momentarily when the thought struck him that perhaps Sherlock had sabotaged the instrument, rather than giving it tender loving care. He peeked inside the case. Nope, still OK. Still red, and with the same number of poncey sound holes. He wouldn't have been particularly surprised if Sherlock had carved a few more in for good measure.

On the fourth day, Sherlock was visibly agitated. He followed John around the kitchen; he mooned around the sitting-room. He sulked, sighed and huffed.

"Sherlock, just tell me what's wrong, will you?"

"I…can't play bar chords."

"You can't do what?"

"Play bar chords. They're really difficult. They sound all mushed. I think that book you bought is faulty."

John fought his smile. "Do you want me to show you?"

Sherlock scowled, almost in physical pain. "Yes please."

John brought out the guitar. He formed a simple bar chord. "Like this - see where my finger is sitting, close to the fret."

"Yes."

"And place your other fingers here -" John demonstrated, "and strum." He strummed. The sound was clear. "It just takes practice. Now you try."

Sherlock held the guitar. He peered at John from the corner of one eye. John teaching him something. Strange feeling. Not sure if good. Maybe a bit good. Damned bar chords. Sherlock stretched his fingers over the strings. _Concentrate. Press down hard, otherwise it's going to sound rubbish and John's going to laugh. If he laughs, I'll whack him. I won't make tea for a month. I'll put a dead mouse in his bed._

Strum.

John nodded. "That sounded all right."

Sherlock stared at the guitar. Wine red was a nice colour after all. D to A to C. Strum.

"Well, there you go, then," John said, grinning, "you're a natural."

Sound holes. Not poncey. Mother-of-pearl inlay. Actually rather attractive.

It's always good to expand your horizons.

Sherlock wondered how much amps cost, and if Mrs. Hudson was likely to kick up very much of a fuss if he practiced with it at 3am. He thought it extremely likely.


End file.
